Things To Do On A Sunday
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: John learns a little bit about navigating a relationship with Sherlock.  Set after "Things We Know".  John/Sherlock established relationship and some slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Apparently I am no longer capable of writing one-shots. So, anyway, here are the first 2 chapters - should be more by tonight (my tonight), although probably not the whole thing in one day. Someone requested more from when J&S get together, so here it is. I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!

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><p>It was nice, magnificent really, to laze about in bed on a Sunday morning, especially when it was settling into cold winter outside, snuggled under the duvet in a pocket of warmth and contentment. It could only be made better if Sherlock were still in bed, but John wasn't really complaining, because Sherlock probably wouldn't be satisfied to just lie there idly, and the fact that he was up and moving about the flat was a good indication of that. He'd managed a lie in last weekend with Sherlock, but the detective had been in one of his antsy moods the past few days and John knew better to than to push it.<p>

He had to get up eventually though, to use the bathroom and to eat, but it was with reluctance that he parted from the bed, tossing the duvet off and appreciating that at least the flat wasn't chilly. A little sign affixed to the fridge helped with that, reading "please turn up the heat if you get up before me", because Sherlock wasn't as liable to notice inconvenient things, like if it was too cold in the flat in the morning.

John shuffled into the bathroom and showered and shaved, but didn't bother dressing other than putting his pyjamas back on. He wandered into the kitchen, where Sherlock had installed himself at the table, a mess of equipment spread out around him.

"Good morning," John greeted, leaning in for a kiss. Sherlock returned it quickly, but John took no offense – he was obviously distracted by work, whatever this was, John didn't eye it too closely, for fear of figuring it out. He set himself to making some breakfast, fixing a plate for Sherlock as well, who accepted it with a muttered acknowledgement that wasn't quite a thank you, but close enough as made no difference.

He took his own plate and mug of tea into the living room, settling into his chair and picking up a book he'd been reading. He polished off his breakfast and read for a few more minutes before Sherlock came into the living room, raking his hands through his dark hair. John looked up from his book, but Sherlock was paying him no real attention, glancing about the flat as though he'd forgotten something, chewing on his lower lip.

He'd already put on a couple of pounds in the short time they'd been together, a little over four weeks now. Not in the unhealthy way, in the eating-more-regularly way. John was pleased to see it, although Sherlock had moaned about it as though he'd suddenly grown an extra head, but had stopped doing so very quickly when John told him it made him look even sexier.

Sherlock had considered this quietly for a few minutes, then jumped on John, entirely ruining the doctor's plans at the time for watching some crap telly and maybe taking a nap. Not that the change in plans has been unwelcome, of course.

"You all right?" John asked.

Sherlock refocused on him with a speed that still surprised John and chewed on his lower lip again, his expression flickering through so many variations John had a hard time pinning any of them down. He thought he caught irritation and reluctance in there, but it was hard to tell.

"What? Oh yes. Fine," Sherlock said, then glanced about again before ducking back into the kitchen, having accomplished nothing insofar as John could tell.

John cleared away his dishes and went back into the bedroom, stripping the duvet off the bed and tossing it on the floor before pulling off the sheets and pillowcases. He did this once a week, as he always had, something his mother hand ingrained in him from a very young age and which life in the army had reinforced. Sherlock was more than happy to let John take care of these things, and John usually reserved Sunday mornings for the chores he knew he'd have to do, or else they'd never get done. He was fairly certain Sherlock would do it, if asked, but it would probably take him several days of patient reminders and John would likely be subjected to excuses about how the detective was too busy.

The bed was John's; he'd been more than willing to move into the downstairs bedroom, knowing Sherlock was more attached to his space than John had been to his. After Afghanistan, simply having a room to himself had been a joy, so it didn't much matter to him if it was upstairs or downstairs, other than the worries that Mrs. Hudson could probably hear them better from the flat's main level. But not the bed, after two days of sleeping on Sherlock's old bed, he'd put his foot down. It was either that or have his shoulder retaliate in protest. John had recently bought himself a good, new bed, since his steady job meant he was making a comfortable living and his old injury needed some consideration.

Sherlock had tried to devise some elaborate contraption by which to move the bed from upstairs, until John had just said:

"Look, there's two of us, let's move your bed into the living room and then mine down here, then yours up there."

As soon as this had been accomplished, Sherlock had insisted they inaugurate the bed as officially theirs, even though it had actually been the first one in which they'd spent a night together. John didn't bother correcting this, though, since he'd had no objection to this plan.

Sherlock certainly spent a lot more time in bed now than he had in the entire time in which John had known him. Sometimes he even actually slept. It was astounding.

John finished changing the sheets and remade the bed, then dressed himself in a pair of jeans and a dark red jumper. He gathered up his phone and wallet and went back into the living room, snagging his jacket and the scarf Sherlock had bought him the previous week, a simple black scarf that was quite plain and functional, just like John preferred. He didn't have Sherlock's taste in clothing, although he definitely appreciated looking at the way Sherlock dressed. He pulled on his shoes and found a pair of gloves, then popped into the kitchen, where the mess had expanded and begun to migrate.

"I'm going to do some errands. Do you need anything?"

Sherlock, who leaning over the table, back to him, straightened and turned, still looking distracted. He'd eaten, John noticed, but hadn't properly showered yet, although he was dressed, and not in the same clothes he'd been wearing the previous day, which meant he wasn't entirely preoccupied.

"No, I'm fine," he assured John.

"All right," John said, making a mental note of the frown Sherlock gave him, of the fact that he looked more tense and fidgety than normal. Something was bothering him, but not so much – yet – that it was making him snappish. John hoped it wasn't boredom and reminded himself to hide the other man's gun when he got home. Mrs. Hudson might just get angry enough to threaten them with eviction if Sherlock kept up shooting the walls.

He went out, stopping down at Mrs. Hudson's to see if she needed anything, did the shopping that needed doing, bought himself a takeaway hot chocolate on the way home, and came back. He delivered Mrs. Hudson's small order of groceries to her then heading back upstairs.

In the short time he'd been out, Sherlock had managed to extend his mess to the dining room table and a couple of the surfaces in the living room. John sighed, toeing off his shoes.

"Thought we agreed that you'd keep it in the kitchen?" he asked, and was surprised when he didn't get a response. He went into the kitchen, which was empty, and found a place to set the groceries, carefully moving some equipment.

"Sherlock?" he called, checking to see if the detective's coat and shoes were still there, which they were.

"Sherlock?" He poked his head into the bedroom, which was empty, then the bathroom, with the same result. John frowned, then nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned and found Sherlock standing right behind him, some mysterious piece of equipment in hand.

"Yes?"

"Bloody hell!" John gasped, shaking his head. "Don't _do_ that!"

Sherlock frowned.

"Don't do what?"

"Sneak up on me!"

"I wasn't sneaking up on you, John."

"Well, learn to make some noise when you move then; you're a menace to my mental health!" He scrubbed a hand over his lips, shaking his head, trying to convince his heart to slow down. "It is generally _not_ a good idea to startle someone with trained combat reactions."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock said. "But I'm not resorting to stomping about the flat." He paused, frown twitching. "I'm sorry."

The apology caught John up short; he wasn't actually upset, just taken off guard, and hadn't expected Sherlock to actually feel any remorse, or at least express it. The pinched look on Sherlock's face made him worry – did he think John was really that put out?

"It's all right," John assured him. "Where were you?"

"Upstairs." John's old room had very quickly turned into a storage area, since John didn't want to share their bedroom with all of Sherlock's mess. The detective had taken over what was now the spare room, and John couldn't really see them having a lot of overnight guests anyway.

"Can you get rid of some of the mess in the kitchen? I need to put the groceries away."

Sherlock gave a distracted nod and vanished, and John followed him after taking a moment to breathe a few deep breaths, shaking his head. Life with Sherlock had always kept him on his toes, of course, but being partners included navigated some hitherto uncharted and unimagined waters.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was piling things on the table in the kitchen, which wasn't the biggest of improvements, but it left enough room for John to unpack his bags and move around without breaking anything. He bunched up the two reusable bags and tossed them just outside the kitchen, intending to pick them up later.

"Do you want me to do that?" Sherlock asked, nodding at the groceries spread out on the counter, as John pulled open a cupboard and put a couple of tins in it. He paused, surprised by the unexpected offer.

"It's all right," he said, flashing a grin. "But thanks." It was better if he did it, so he knew where the food ended up, and that it wasn't being stored with anything toxic. Sherlock gave another distracted nod and left the kitchen. John finished putting the groceries away and poured himself a glass of water, then headed back into their bedroom, pulling out everything that wasn't the sheets from the hamper, then depositing the hamper in the hallway next to the bathroom. He fetched the towels, replacing them with new ones, then headed down to the main level to run the laundry. He went back upstairs, back into the bedroom, listening with half an ear as Sherlock moved about in the kitchen again, and sorted through his own laundry, which would need to be done later.

In some ways, he didn't mind this regular Sunday routine. It always gave him something to do. And it was nice when it was finished for a whole week. Two if he let it stretch, but then he usually ran out of clean clothing – _not_ that Sherlock would complain if John wasn't wearing anything, he thought with a grin to himself.

He went back into the living room with his glass of water to find Sherlock perched in his own chair, twiddling a pen in his fingers, eyes on an open book. John sat down in his chair, reaching for his book, then noticed his partner seemed unusually tense, and realized he'd never seen Sherlock fidgeting with a pen like that before. Tapping his lips with one, yes, all the time. But not just spinning it in his fingers. And, John noted suddenly, he wasn't reading, just staring at the page, because his eyes weren't moving.

"Sherlock?" he asked, and the grey eyes flashed up to meet his gaze and John thought he saw an element of uncertainty there. He leant forward, lacing his fingers together between his knees. "Something the matter?"

"No," Sherlock assured him, but the word seemed clipped. John's eyes darted to the pen twirling in Sherlock's fingers and the detective appeared to realize suddenly that he was doing this and clamped down on the action, the pen stopping abruptly. Sherlock gave him a glare for good measure and returned his attention to his book, actually reading this time, or at least moving his eyes over the page to make it look like he were reading.

"Are you sure?" John asked.

"I said I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied, tone just short of snapping and John sighed, earning him another glare. John sighed again, but inwardly; whatever was bothering Sherlock, he wasn't going to own up to it anytime soon. John had a way now of dealing with Sherlock's stubbornness, but he also had a distinct sensation that the hand-in-the-hair trick would be completely unwanted at the moment, not just the feigned unwelcome it received most of the time.

The buzz from the washer on the floor below made John look up and he put his book aside again, pushing himself to his feet and crossing the room, but pausing in front of Sherlock's chair, waiting until the detective looked up with a cool gaze. John caught Sherlock's chin with his thumb and forefinger and leant down for a kiss, ignoring when Sherlock stiffened reluctantly, responding only by deepening the kiss, refusing to be put off by his partner's obstinacy.

Sherlock was immobile for a moment, then dropped his book, grabbing John's face, opening his lips and pushing his tongue into John's mouth roughly, turning the tables, making it the doctor's turn to be surprised. He nearly stumbled when Sherlock pushed himself from his chair, managing to tower over John and keep kissing him at the same time, walking John backwards toward the bedroom.

John managed break away in order to suck in a breath and Sherlock refocused his attention on John's neck for an exquisite moment in which John's brain threatened to simply shut down, then pushed him onto the neatly made bed.

"Sherlock –" John started as his partner scrambled on top of him, straddling his waist, pinning him neatly and leaning down to lock him in another deep kiss.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock murmured, pulling away and running his cold hands up under John's jumper, making John gasp, tugging the shirt off and tossing it carelessly aside.

"Yes, all right," John managed, nodding. Sherlock gave him a wolfish grin, a bright, dark glint in his grey eyes.

"Good man," Sherlock murmured against John's neck, the rumble of his voice sending a shudder through the doctor, and John abandoned any attempts to think altogether.

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><p>"You know, I think maybe we should sound-proof the bedroom," John commented as Sherlock traced a hand lazily across his belly, almost-but-not-quite letting his fingers trail downward to the point of becoming distracting again, which was making John repress a squirm.<p>

"We'd have to do the whole flat," Sherlock pointed out, to which John grinned and raised his hands, finding Sherlock's swollen lips for another kiss. Sherlock let his hand settle on John's waist, pulling him closer again, deepening the kiss, but softly, gently, so the desire it stirred was warm, not sharp.

"You're a menace," John murmured against Sherlock's lips, and felt Sherlock smile, seeing the brightness reflected up close in his grey eyes.

"So you say," Sherlock replied, resuming his fingers' light and absent exploration of John's skin, but John could see the acknowledgement in them when goose bumps rose on John's skin in response. "Although, you know, 'oh, God, please, Sherlock, yes, _Sherlock_!' does not sound like much of a complaint to me."

John felt himself going red, which was ridiculous, and which made Sherlock's smile twitch and widen. Trust Sherlock to remember that – he could probably have recited everything John had moaned and gasped and incoherently pled.

And trust Sherlock's problem to have been the – what? John checked the clock. Approximately ten-hour lack of sex.

"Shower?" Sherlock suggested.

"Mmm, all right," John agreed, nuzzling Sherlock's neck for good measure. He'd have preferred to wait, because the shower was one of his favourite places for shagging, but he supposed they could always take another one, later.

They showered, languidly, and then dressed, and as John rescued his jeans from their abandoned place on the bedroom floor, he remembered about the laundry. He gathered up his clothing, bundling it into his arms, since he'd left the hamper downstairs, and glanced at Sherlock.

"Anything of yours that can go in that I don't have?"

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look, then shook his head.

"Oh, no," he said, appearing distracted again. John just nodded – he had no real hope of understanding everything that went on in Sherlock's head and who knew what thought or connection in his mind had diverted him. He shuffled through the flat and opened the door with some difficulty, then clattered down the stairs, dumping the load in his arms unceremoniously on the floor and pulled open the washer, transferring its contents to the dryer.


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Hudson chose not to pester John while he changed out the laundry, thankfully, because the doctor didn't know if he could take the embarrassment at the moment. Sherlock had rolled his eyes about John's compunctions regarding Mrs. Hudson and the noise they made, pointing out that she was, in fact, _Mrs._ Hudson and there had been a Mr. Hudson at one point, so presumably she knew what they got up to. This hadn't helped, in John's opinion, nor did the gleaming, knowing, and above all, triumphant look in their landlady's eyes make matters any better.

There were times when he was certain that Mrs. Hudson was happier that he and Sherlock were together than either of them were. But, he supposed, she'd been banking on it since they'd moved in, where neither John nor Sherlock had given it serious thought until much more recently.

He just hoped she wasn't to start on the idea of marriage. It had only been a month, even if things had progressed quite quickly. Part of that, John knew, was the fact that they'd already been flatmates and friends, part was the fact that Sherlock didn't do things by half measures, although John suspected his partner would even balk at the idea of marriage so soon, if he ever considered it at all. Sherlock was not exactly traditional when it came to anything whatsoever.

He went back upstairs after sorting their laundry and putting in a load, to find that some of the mess had been cleared from the dining room table, and Sherlock was in the kitchen, cleaning some of his glassware. John knew better than to ask for the detective to do the washing up from breakfast as well, even though Sherlock was up to his elbows in dishwater and it would have been a simple thing to just do a bit more. John had no real expectations in this matter, even if it was only a couple of plates, forks, and mugs.

He went into the bathroom and cleaned it quickly, accidentally dislodging a couple of boxes of nicotine patches when he pulled out the cleaners from under the sink. John checked both of them, but they were unopened, so he hunted a moment for an open one, but didn't find any. Certainly Sherlock had been using these less lately – John had noticed an obvious correlation between the time they'd gotten together and the decrease in patch use. He grinned to himself; maybe sex was a better substitute? Healthier, anyway.

He cleaned quickly, then went back into the kitchen, which was now empty, and did the dishes Sherlock had not, of course, done. The equipment was drying next to the sink. In this, Sherlock was meticulous, and John made sure to dry the dishes and put them away rather than risk Sherlock's wrath letting them dry with his expensive glassware.

_Oh, the horror_, John thought with a smile. _It's not as though he can't afford more, if any of it broke._

He checked the time, feeling hungry, and then wondered where Sherlock was. John poked his head into their bedroom and didn't see him, so went up the stairs to his old room, peering in the through the door.

Sherlock was sitting on the end of the bed, legs drawn up so his heels could just rest on the mattress, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. He was staring at the closet, but not in a way that suggested he was actually looking at it, lost in thought. The curtains were drawn closed, so the room was dim, and the light was off.

This wasn't the first time John had caught him sitting up in the spare bedroom, just thinking, as though cultivating a little space of silence for himself when John was home and engaged with chores or other things. Although it didn't happen very often, because Sherlock thought better when he was talking or playing the violin, and John privately wondered if this was, in part, some nod at sentimentality on Sherlock's part, since they had spent their first night together in this room.

John rapped lightly on the doorframe.

"Yes, I heard you come up the stairs," Sherlock said.

"I'm going to make lunch," John informed him.

"Not hungry," Sherlock replied, which John knew was probably a lie.

"You need to keep your strength up," he said. "Or else you won't have the energy to shag me later, and I'm not having with that."

At this, Sherlock turned his face partway toward John, a dry, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his grey eyes momentarily bright in the dimness of the room. John was struck by how young his partner looked – there were times when it seemed more apparent than normal, when the years refused to stick to Sherlock's smooth, pale features.

"You're quite single-minded, John," Sherlock commented.

John snorted.

"Says _you_?" he asked. "Come down in about half an hour."

Sherlock gave an absent nod and John went back downstairs. He transferred Sherlock's equipment carefully to a tea towel that he spread out on the table, so it could dry without the possibility of him knocking it over as he worked, and then chewed absently on his lower lip, thinking of what to make. He was fairly hungry from a morning's worth of chores and a very good shag from his partner, so he decided on pasta with a cream sauce, an old standby favourite. He normally kept the ingredients on hand, and a quick check revealed Sherlock hadn't appropriated the cream for any other use, like drinking instead of the milk by accident, or for some obscure experimental reason. John pulled out a package of frozen tortellini and the things he'd need for the sauce, and set to work, humming under his breath as he did so.

He frowned when he realized Sherlock had moved the garlic to the top shelf of one of the food cupboards, which John could not reach on his own, of course, being half a foot shorter than his partner, but the sound of Sherlock coming back downstairs early made him smile.

"Good timing!" he called. "Come in here!"

Sherlock wandered in, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Get the garlic down from the top shelf," John said, nodding at the cupboard. Sherlock peered at it, blankly, then cast a questioning look at John.

"That terracotta container, the bell-shaped one," John said. "It's the garlic holder."

"Why on Earth would anyone need a special container for that?" Sherlock asked.

"No idea," John admitted honestly. It was one of those things someone – probably his mother – had given him at some point, even though he found it unnecessary, but which he used, because he owned it.

"Why did you put it up there if you can't reach it?" Sherlock asked, snagging it easily, putting it on the counter.

John chuckled.

"_I_ didn't," he said. "You did."

"Don't be daft, John, I've no reason to put the garlic away. I don't use it."

"Probably why you stashed it away," John replied with a quick grin, popping the lid off the small container and quickly peeling off a couple of cloves, then fishing around for his garlic press – another random kitchen utensil gift, but this one more useful. He liked garlic, and Sherlock ate whatever John made for him, generally. He'd initially pegged the detective as a picky eater, but turned out be far wrong about that. This surprised John, because he had actually met Sherlock's parents at one point, and it came as no surprise to the doctor that Sherlock had grown up being fed by a private chef. Nor had the manor house surprised him, nor the servants, nor the large grounds that a person could get lost on for days, nor the quintessential butler, nor even the sommelier.

None of this surprised him because he'd met Mycroft. Had he not, he would assumed Sherlock came from some money – his clothing was too expensive for him not to, but perhaps he wouldn't have thought it was quite so much. He still wasn't sure how to judge it. And here was a man who didn't care what he ate, or really if he ate at all, or where he lived, and had inexplicably needed a flatmate for a flat in a house he could have purchased outright.

Thinking this made him miss the expression of dissatisfaction on Sherlock's face altogether.

"Thanks," John said absent-mindedly as he put a pot on the stove and threw in the garlic with some oil and set to work making the sauce. Sherlock sat down at the table and began fiddling with some equipment, and John moved easily around him when necessary, enjoying the smell of the cooking and the quiet company, rolling his eyes when Sherlock got up to stand behind him at the stove, tracing his fingers up and down John's spine.

"I'll need to eat first," John said, and Sherlock chuckled once, softly. "Fetch down two plates."

Sherlock did as bidden, for once, and John dished them up the pasta, then went into the dining room before remembering that Sherlock still had a mess spread out on the table.

"Couch it is," John said and Sherlock wrinkled his nose in displeasure, but John ignored this, settling down, and Sherlock joined him, even consenting to eat a full meal for the second time that day.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Scribblez! **Turn on your PM'ing so I can message you back, please! I do want to reply! (And let me know when you do, so I can write back).

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><p>John took care of the washing up after lunch, going back to humming to himself under his breath, some tuneless thing he didn't think was from anything, or perhaps snatches of an otherwise forgotten song. For a few minutes, the sound of running water masked the sounds from the dining room, and it was only when John shut off the tap did he hear the clink of glassware coming from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder while he hands swirled the sponge across one of the plates, and saw Sherlock come into the kitchen to deposit some equipment on the kitchen table.<p>

John raised an eyebrow in surprise. He was actually cleaning? Astonishing.

He grinned at the put-upon look Sherlock gave him before he left the kitchen again, and finished up the dishes, leaving them to dry in the rack, rinsing out the sink and fetching another towel from the drawer to wipe his hands. He started, nearly dropping the towel, when he heard the sound of glass breaking on the floor and Sherlock's angry:

"Blast!"

John threw the towel on the counter and hurried into the dining room to find the genius crouched down, muttering curses, picking up large bits of shattered glassware and depositing them back on the table, which wasn't really an improvement. John darted back into the kitchen and grabbed the trash bin, setting it next to Sherlock.

"Here," he said, crouching down as well and Sherlock glanced up, then cut himself on a shard.

"Damn, damn, blast!" Sherlock snarled as red blood pooled on his right index finger, which he immediately stuck in his mouth to staunch the flow. John grabbed his partner's hand, pulling it away from his face.

"Bad idea!" he snapped. "Sucking on it will just draw more blood to it." He stood, pulling Sherlock with him, and towed the other man into the kitchen, sticking his hand under the sink, letting cold water run over it, tinting the water red as it swirled in the drain. John scrubbed the small wound with his own hand, and was surprised when Sherlock's fingers closed over his, his thumb rubbing slow circles on John's palm.

_Christ, really?_ John thought, raising his eyes to meet Sherlock's dark gaze. And the detective had called _him_ single-minded? The expression on Sherlock's face as he laced his fingers through John's and toyed vaguely with them sent a now-familiar shudder of desire down John's spine. Sherlock was wearing that I-know-what-you-want (and-it's-me) smile on his lips, just a trace of it, and regarding John more than a little thoughtfully.

"Your –" John started, trying to maintain some control, but Sherlock waved his other hand, making a dismissive noise.

"Smarts a little and needs a plaster at best," he said, leaning down, catching John's lips and the doctor gave a small moan, knowing he was beaten. "This will quite take my mind off of it, I assure you."

Without thinking, John shut off the tap and felt Sherlock smile against his lips.

"You _are_ a menace," John managed to murmur, when Sherlock let him up for breath.

"Hmm," Sherlock said as John tugged on his hand, moving them toward the bedroom. "And yet, you don't seem at all inconvenienced. Quite the opposite, in fact."

Having nothing to say to that, John pulled Sherlock down for another kiss, tasting the fading tang of blood on his tongue from his finger. He ran a hand into Sherlock's hair, feeling the dark curls slip through his fingers and kicked the door shut unnecessarily, making Sherlock laugh into their kiss, and John toppled them both onto the bed, which he hadn't bothered to remake since the last time.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sherlock, run!"<em>

_Sherlock freezes._

_Nonononononono, RUN! John tries to scream, wants to scream, but can't, and Sherlock freezes. Grey eyes, stunned, stopped, like John's heart, if the bomb goes off._

_GODDAMNIT RUN!_

_There's a knowing laughter, makes his heart want to skip, stop altogether, makes it hard to breathe, like suffocating in sand. Water laps at the side of the pool, a small sound, familiar almost, background noise that should mean nothing. Quiet. Peaceful._

_But it's hot, so hot. Why so hot? The parka is making him sweat, feels disgusting, and it's so bright. So much brighter than it should be._

_John squints into the sun, screwing his eyes shut, heart hammering – heart that might stop, if the bomb goes off._

_In his combat fatigues, Sherlock looks even paler. Hair hidden under his helmet, goggles pushed up onto the front of the helmet, kitted out, holding his rifle, but frozen._

_Snipers. They're surrounded by snipers._

_The explosion hits him, hard, like a bullet, searing, so loud, so bright, and he can't hear, can't see, can't breathe, like a mountain's come down on him._

_Nonononononono!_

"_Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson! Medic!"_

_John forces his eyes open, but there's dirt, sand, dust, everywhere, and he tries to reach up, but screams, screams instead and screws his eyes shut again to stop the noise, stop the yelling, stop the ringing and pounding in his head, stop his own heart, because where is Sherlock -? _

"_John! John! Listen to me, John!"_

_John opens his eyes again, it's so hard, because it's so bright, but there's Tricia, standing in front of him, one arm outstretched, shaking her head, nonononono. Blue eyes wide, bright, afraid, tanned skin against her own fatigues._

_Afraid?  
><em>

"_John, put it down. John, let him go. John, think."_

"_Tricia, run!" he yells. _

_Tricia freezes._

"_John, don't," she says softly. Swallows. Blue eyes locked on him, dark with fear._

_He looks at the man he's caught, the gun pressed into his neck, but it's wrong, all wrong, the dimensions are wrong, the way it feels is wrong, he's holding too much of the weight because Sherlock is so much taller than him and is being forced almost into a crouch, hands grasping John's arm around his neck, head back, wide eyes fixed on the ceiling._

_The gun clatters to the pool's tiled floor._

John snapped his eyes open, sitting up before he was fully awake, his heart hammering in his chest, throat, behind his eyes, in his brain, in his arms and legs so that he collapsed back onto the bed with a ragged gasp, pressing a hand over his eyes.

He lay there a moment, forcing himself to breathe normally, to suppress the shudder and not quite able to. It racked his body for a moment and he stiffened against it, which made his shoulder hurt.

Another moment and he was able to relax a bit, repeating _just a nightmare_ to himself over and over, but in the way of nightmares, it felt worse in that moment than any he'd had before. He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands and checked the time – it was almost three in the afternoon now, so he'd been asleep for a little over an hour.

John gave himself a few minutes to feel collected and got up, shaking away the last vestiges of the dream. Knowing he was prone to vivid dreams and nightmares, especially after the war – especially after The Pool – didn't help the uneasy feeling it left in him. And he'd never dreamt of holding Sherlock in Moriarty's place, so the memory made him feel queasy and guilty, even though it had not been real and he had no control over what his mind did when he slept.

The flat was suspiciously silent when he got up and John checked the upstairs bedroom, then noticed that Sherlock's coat and shoes were gone. A chill ran through him and he shook if off, insisting it was only the dream, but it had brought up the memory of Moriarty and the man was still out there, God only knew where, doing God only knew what.

John found his phone and sent two messages, one to Sherlock asking where he was, and the other to Tricia, enquiring as to how she was. Then he made himself finish the laundry, for something to do, folding the sheets and towels and shoving his clothing in the dryer. He tried to ignore altogether the fact that neither his partner nor his friend returned his texts.


	5. Chapter 5

But the front door opened as John was about to pick up the hamper to take the sheets back upstairs and he nearly jumped and gave Sherlock a heartfelt glare for good measure when the detective stepped inside, shaking off his umbrella, a blue reusable shopping bag held in the crook of his left arm.

"Why didn't you return my text?" John demanded, knowing he was being unreasonable, but unable to bite back the question.

"I was in the tube," Sherlock replied, cocking an eyebrow at him, expression turning cool for a moment. "By the time I received it, I was almost back here. Not much point in replying then."

And this was completely logical and sensible and practical and John pursed his lips, but the fight drained out of him. He grunted lightly when he hefted the hamper and Sherlock clattered up the stairs ahead of him, opening the door and actually not just letting it swing closed before John was inside. John knew that wasn't fair – Sherlock rarely did that anymore, and only when he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings, deep in thought, but John was feeling edgy from the nap that had been spoiled by the nightmare.

"Nightmare?" Sherlock asked, as though reading his mind.

"Yeah," John huffed, taking the hamper into the bedroom as Sherlock divested himself of his coat and scarf and then went upstairs with whatever his shopping was.

A few minutes later, John looked up from folding sheets, which he did find tedious, but there was that army training again, as Sherlock came in and leaned on the doorframe. His hair was still slightly tussled from their shagging earlier – the second time, since they'd showered after the first – and John felt himself redden somewhat, because he _knew_ Sherlock did that on purpose, as if to proclaim that John had been there. Probably no one would notice, unless they were particularly observant, or knew Sherlock well, which amounted to what? All of about five people, John thought.

One of them being John himself.

Although, some days, he wondered about that, too.

"Are you all right, John?" Sherlock asked.

"Give me a hand with this," John ordered by way of reply and Sherlock attempted to assist him in folding the sheets, but John gave it up as a bad job after about ten seconds.

"Yes, fine," he replied to Sherlock's earlier question. "I really don't want to talk about it."

Sherlock hesitated, almost as though he were going to press the issue, but then gave a curt nod, vanishing from the room again. John repressed a sigh – it wouldn't be productive if they were both antsy, and he knew it was stupid to be irritated with Sherlock for not texting back a block away from the flat to say that he was a block away from the flat.

And he couldn't help it if Tricia hadn't texted him back, because her schedule was erratic at best. He knew that; he'd lived it.

No sooner had he thought that then his phone buzzed and he snatched it.

_Fine yes. Why? - T_

_Nightmare_, John texted back.

_Things are quiet here. Sleep better. Love – T_

John put his phone aside and finished folding everything, stowing it away. He found Sherlock in the bathroom, fumbling with a plaster.

"Here," Sherlock said, extending the plaster and his right hand to John. The doctor sighed – apparently, he made house calls, or at least Sherlock calls – and helped his partner with the small bandage, wondering why Sherlock looked inordinately pleased when John had finished.

"Very precise. Well done, John," he said, and John snorted.

"I'm a trained surgeon," John pointed out. "I can manage a plaster."

"Hmm, yes, I know," Sherlock said. "You do have quite steady hands."

John laughed, feeling some of the tension drain away.

"Good to know they're appreciated," John teased. Sherlock gave him an odd look, but the man was so full of odd looks that they were practically normal. He ducked out of the bathroom again, getting himself another glass of water from the kitchen, and then realized that the glassware Sherlock had broken had never been properly cleaned up.

Since Sherlock was nowhere to be seen in their flat, which wasn't so big he could get lost in it, John cleaned up the bigger shards of glass and got the vacuum cleaner from the closet. He was almost certain that Sherlock didn't know where it was normally stored, and probably couldn't use it, even if pressed. John cleaned up the broken glass to his satisfaction, noting that Sherlock came in as soon as he was finished.

"I was going to do that," the detective protested looking, of all things, hurt.

"Why didn't you do it before you left then?" John asked, winding the cord back around the cleaner.

"You were sleeping," Sherlock said. "I couldn't very well start the vacuum then."

John paused.

"You know how to vacuum?" he asked, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Sherlock gave him a puzzled, almost disbelieving look.

"Obviously, John," he said. "It's not that complicated a concept. I also know how to operate the toaster. Do you need a demonstration?"

"You're just not much of a cleaner," John pointed out.

"And that isn't the first bit of glassware I've broken," Sherlock replied.

"Good point," John conceded. "Here, put this away then." He waved at the vacuum cleaner, which Sherlock took and, indeed, did know where to put away, and returned the trash bin to the kitchen.

John realized then that he was finished and smiled to himself – it never used to take him this long to get his self-imposed chores done, but then, until fairly recently, his time hadn't been interrupted by frequent and fairly regular bouts of shagging. He grinned to himself, shaking his head.

He had only the laundry left in the dryer, which he didn't have to do anything about at the moment, so he went back into the living room, where Sherlock had taken up his perch in his chair, the telly on, watching a repeat of Doctor Who. John knew better than to interrupt that; Sherlock had his palms pressed together, the tips of his middle fingers just touching his chin, the way he did when he was really concentrating on a case. John thought it was funny and quite cute – although he'd never say it out loud – that Sherlock gave the same amount of mental energy to The Doctor as he did to his work.

John settled into his own chair with a book and let the time drift past, more than content to be curled up inside on what had become a rainy Sunday afternoon. Although it was really almost night, at least in terms of the sunset, since it was early December, and the days were drawing to a close much sooner. John flicked on a lamp and kept reading, then looked up, surprised, when Sherlock shut off the telly in the middle of the programme.

The detective had a pinched expression on his face that made John frown.

"Boring," Sherlock huffed, tossing the remote aside disdainfully.

"You seemed well into it at the beginning," John commented, marking his page with a finger.

"Yes, well," Sherlock said dismissively. "It got dull."

At this, John raised his eyebrows. Doctor Who _never_ got dull, insofar as he could tell, even if Sherlock had seen an episode multiple times. He owned the whole series on DVD, as much as he could get up to this point anyway, and would go on madcap binges, monopolizing the telly for hours at a time, although he didn't do this often, much to John's relief.

But Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen and began clattering about, so John let it go, because Sherlock's antsy mood really hadn't settled, despite all the shagging, which always took care of it temporarily. He hoped Lestrade would call again soon, then remembered he'd wanted to hide Sherlock's gun. _Well, leave it for now_, he thought. He'd just keep an eye on his partner, because if he tried to hide it now, Sherlock would just find it immediately.

John kept reading, listening with half an ear at the clattering in the kitchen, hoping nothing else would break, and eventually Sherlock vanished back upstairs for whatever unknown reason. John wondered if he could convince the detective to move his "lab" up there permanently, but probably not. He should be near a sink anyway, in case of toxic chemical spills.

The sun sank and the twilight darkened outside, prompting John to get up and draw the curtains, then fetch his own laundry to free up the machines for Mrs. Hudson, should she want them. He went back into their bedroom, put his clean clothes away – and whatever of Sherlock's he had – then went back to his book, keeping an ear on the sounds from upstairs, but whatever he was doing, Sherlock was actually being fairly quiet, for once. John grinned and slumped more comfortably into his chair, enjoying the rare moment of silence and the lack of anyone harassing him as he read.


	6. Chapter 6

When John got up to get himself a beer, he realized he hadn't seen nor heard Sherlock in about an hour, which was suddenly worrisome. It probably meant he was up to no good and was being quiet so as to hide that fact from John, who would only became aware of it when something exploded or caught on fire or caused the police to burst into their flat with a search warrant and a CO19 team.

John fetched himself a beer nonetheless, because it was better to be prepared for anything, popped it open, then headed up the stairs. Odd how after only a month, this had become less of a familiar action; he'd always done it before without thinking, but then, he'd only ever been heading to his room, not checking on Sherlock.

He poked his head in, surprised the light was off, because it was dark now and the curtains had been kept drawn, so there was no way to work without a light, although he wouldn't put it past Sherlock to try, which would hasten any explosive results he was searching for. He half expected to see Sherlock just sitting there again, because the kind of mood the detective was in today made it seem likely. He was restless, but John had already caught him sitting still up in the spare bedroom once, although not quite what John would describe as calm.

He did not expect to see Sherlock curled on the bed, asleep.

A smile twitched at John's lips, fondness and love and indulgence. It was somewhat surprising, since Sherlock wasn't particularly appreciative of actually sleeping, but given that he'd gotten at best four hours the night before and had spent part of the day shagging John and the rest in a fidgety mood, it was not really unexpected. John knew Sherlock had trained himself to go without sleep, but he also knew what the human body would put up with, and after awhile, even Sherlock, despite his assertions that his intellect removed him from such mundane necessities, would have to give into basic physical demands.

He was curled on his left side, in the middle of the bed, and was still wearing his shoes. John set his beer on the bedside table and unlaced and drew off the polished black shoes carefully, setting them gently on the floor at the foot of the bed. Sherlock didn't stir during this, but did when John sat down carefully next to him, nudging as close as he could without disturbing his partner while gaining enough space to be fully on the mattress.

"Hmmnmm," Sherlock murmured, shifting his legs somewhat, then snaking an arm across John's legs, pillowing his face on John's right hip. This was opposite of how they normally slept, but John didn't mind. He picked up his beer and took a draught, then set it back down quietly, weaving his other hand into Sherlock's thick hair. Sherlock made another contended noise, then stilled, and John was happy to sit, sipping his beer, absently stroking Sherlock's hair.

After awhile, Sherlock shifted again, and John felt a sigh against his leg.

"John?" Sherlock murmured.

John looked down through the darkness, raising his eyebrows.

He had discovered, in the past month, that Sherlock talked in his sleep. Not often, but often enough to be considered a regular occurrence and hint to John that it happened more than he was aware of, since he would sleep through some of it himself. The first couple of times, John hadn't been aware that Sherlock had been asleep, and the conversations had gotten strange quite fast, even for the consulting detective.

The second time, Sherlock had taken to talking to him in French, which John very much enjoyed listening to. Something about the other language accentuated the rumble Sherlock's voice, and John had no defences against hearing Sherlock roll his ars at the back of his throat. Sherlock had, of course, cued in on this immediately and used it against John at every opportunity when he was felt like taunting the doctor, especially at crime scenes – only when they were wrapping up – or in cabs or, his personal favourite, knowing John was pinned, on the tube. But when Sherlock hadn't switched from French nor had he tried to jump John, the doctor realized that he wasn't actually awake, but talking in his sleep.

He remembered how Sherlock's nostrils had flared and his eyes had glinted in displeasure when John mentioned the sleep-talking, and the doctor had laughed to realize Sherlock was annoyed about what he considered a loss of control.

This time, however, Sherlock raised his head to meet John's eyes in the darkness, as much as that was possible. He was still for a moment, then pushed himself to sitting, disentangling himself from John, but not, John noted, glancing around as though he didn't know where he was, because if there had been any uncertainty about that, he'd probably remembered in about the first half second after waking up.

"Why did you let me fall asleep?" Sherlock demanded, and there was no hint of grogginess in his voice, no suggestion he'd just woken up.

John chuckled.

"_I_ didn't," he replied. "You were asleep when I came up here."

Sherlock huffed in the darkness.

"How long?"

"Um, I don't know," John pointed out. "Refer to my last comment about you being asleep when I came up here."

Sherlock scowled at him, John was certain, making the doctor grin. The detective grunted and pushed himself from the bed, causing John to catch his balance and try not to spill his beer at the same time, a bit of a tenuous feat.

"I don't need to _nap_," Sherlock spat, but more to himself, John thought. He raked his hands through his dark hair, a quick, agitated movement and John sighed, shifting so he was sitting cross-legged, putting his mostly empty beer bottle aside.

"Want to tell me what's bothering you?" he asked.

Sherlock refocused on him through the darkness.

"Nothing is bothering me, John," he snapped. He huffed, for good measure, and headed for the door.

"Sherlock," John said, putting a warning note in his voice.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock insisted.

"You really don't seem fine," John contradicted. "Even for you, you're jumpy. You've been like this for three days now. You're not sick, are you?" John threw that in, knowing it wasn't the case, but wanting to ask to make absolutely sure.

John knew his partner wasn't injured – he saw Sherlock's whole body on brilliant display on a regular basis now, and he wouldn't have missed any scratches or bruises, at least, not ones that John himself hadn't put there. And he hadn't seen any more seriously injuries.

"No, of course not," Sherlock sniffed, as though this were a preposterous idea, even though he'd caught a cold earlier in the autumn and had acted as though he were in total agony, aggravating John with constant demands and moaning about as though the entire world was coming to an end.

"Well, then?" John asked and Sherlock was hesitating, clearly torn between just leaving the room and actually wanting to fess up, which John considered a big improvement to the darting-about-the-flat routine Sherlock had adopted most of that day.

"Is it the lack of cases?" John asked. Sherlock fidgeted and John suspected that was part of it, but not all of it.

Normally, if something was bothering Sherlock, John had learned to wait it out, pretending to pay it no attention, until the detective was nearly dying to tell him, in which case John would ask a few pointed questions, acting as though he was trying to pull the story out of Sherlock, who would hold off about five minutes before launching into an explanation. John used this on cases sometimes, when Sherlock was revelling in having figured something out that no one else had, but was also gloating and refusing to explain. Mostly he did this when Anderson was somehow involved. But it had worked for non-case related topics as well.

This time, John sensed, it would not work.

John held out a hand, not beckoning, but in a gesture asking Sherlock to come back and settle down again. Out of sheer obstinacy, Sherlock stood his ground for a few more seconds, tense and rigid, then nearly flopped back onto the bed, sitting on the edge. Perching, really, John noticed, and just far enough away that John couldn't immediately touch him, and would have to lean over to do so. So he could get away quickly, John realized. Something _was_ really bothering him.

"What is it?" John asked patiently. Sherlock scowled at him – it was getting easier to see in the darkness now, having adjusted to the low level of lighting coming from the edges of the curtains and the lights still on downstairs.

Sherlock curled his hands over the edge of the mattress and looked back at John, not quite having to turn his head all the way over his shoulder, since he was angled enough to see John a bit without stretching.

Sherlock set his jaw, sliding his gaze from John's again. John waited, frowning, not at all certain what to think, what was going on in his partner's mind. Of course, this was a normal state for John, but he had an idea that it was different, this time.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, tapping his fingers on the duvet-covered mattress, and John leaned forward somewhat, resting his elbows on his knees. Sherlock's grey eyes darted to John's brown ones for a moment, then away again, and he chewed on his lower lip, as if doing so could contain whatever it was he didn't want to say.

"I don't know what do to," he muttered, finally, through clenched teeth.


	7. Chapter 7

Anyone else probably would have wailed that, John thought, because he heard the trace of something that was almost desperation, but kept tightly under wraps, as if giving voice to it would let it take on a life of its own, take control.

"Don't know what to do about what?" John asked. He wasn't working on a case, so it clearly wasn't that. "About napping?"

"No, John!" Sherlock snapped and John recognized the familiar overtones of do-_try_-to-keep-up in his voice, that hint of dry reproach. "About – this."

He gestured to the darkened room, as if that somehow actually explained anything.

"Um," John said, shaking his head, biting his lower lip. "You've lost me, I'm afraid."

Sherlock gave him a look so familiar John almost laughed – it told him Sherlock was used to that feeling – but then the expression was gone, and he looked uncertain again, almost hunted.

"Everything!" Sherlock snapped, as if this clarified any more at all. He held up his hands in an agitated motion, then shook his head. "I've never – done _this_ before."

_Ah_, John thought, thinking he'd caught up. It made him want to smile, but he swallowed on it, fairly certain it would be misinterpreted.

"Sorry, why do you think I do?" John asked.

Sherlock stared at him as though he'd said something mad or ridiculous.

"You've – been in other relationships," he managed to mutter and John couldn't quite keep the smile from his lips then, but at least managed to keep it small, quirking at the corners of his mouth, but nothing more.

"Yes," he agreed. "With women."

"Is it different?" Sherlock asked, suddenly sounding genuinely curious and John had to laugh, unable to restrain it anymore. Sherlock's face darkened again and John held up his hands in a pacifying gesture.

"It's different with every person, Sherlock," John said. "And _you're_ different. And yes, it's different with women. You're the first man I've been with, you know that."

This was still requiring a lot of adjustment, but John wasn't fussed about that – well, not much, not in any way that would make him doubt his choice. The sex took getting used to, but in a very, very good way that John didn't mind at all. In fact, he welcomed any and all opportunities to adjust to it, even if it meant being woken up in the middle of the night, or kept up all night, or made late for work.

"And besides, it's not as though there's some secret set of instructions you don't know about," John pointed out. "No one ever really knows what they're doing, and people who say they do are either charlatans or liars."

Sherlock gave him a surprised look, and John laughed again. At this, the detective narrowed his eyes. John chuckled, shaking his head.

"Sorry, sorry," he said. "But it's true. It's easier for some, okay, and I know it's not simple for you, but look, Sherlock," he sighed, swallowing on his chuckles, "If it were simple, you'd find it boring."

Sherlock nodded, almost instinctively, John could tell. It was true, but he also worried that the detective would give up if it became too complicated – Sherlock _liked_ complicated, but only when it pertained to cases. Not when it pertained to how other people interacted with him. John thought, darkly, that was the appeal of James Moriarty. He was simple in a very insane way. He was frighteningly intelligent, but when it came down to it, he only wanted one thing: to cause disorder, because he found it amusing.

Part of John was bothered by Sherlock's fascination with this, until he reminded himself that Sherlock was sitting there, having a conversation he so clearly very much did not want to be having.

"You've lost friends over this," Sherlock pointed out, quietly.

"Not really friends, then," John said, keeping his voice light, although, truth be told, it had smarted. There were a few people, former army mates, who had let their prejudices get the better of them, but John had always somewhat known, and had ignored it before, because it hadn't been relevant to him. He'd half hoped that when it did become relevant, when it was _him_, someone they knew, opinions would change, shift, become more open, but with some, it just hadn't happened. He knew there were a few people who were really trying, and he suspected some of them would succeed and others would fail, and it made him a bit sad to realize this, as well as to realize that before getting into a relationship with Sherlock, he hadn't really thought about how any kind of prejudice like this would affect someone. Even when he'd suspected Sherlock was gay, because it wasn't as though Sherlock had an active social life. Or any social life.

"And not the ones who matter," John added. This was true – Tricia had laughed and laughed over the phone at him, but in a very delighted way, congratulating him, telling him she'd been right, after all. A little of the sibling I-told-you-so to make his day when he'd spoken to her.

Even Harry had been happy for him, if somewhat surprised, and John knew his mother was trying to adjust, more to the fact that both of her children had ended up in same-sex relationships, although Harry had let hers disintegrate. John also knew his mother was disappointed by the prospect of having no grandchildren, having thought to count on John for that. John thought it was best if Harry never became a mother, but he couldn't imagine for the life of him having children now. He was fairly certain Sherlock would either treat a child like an experiment, or forget it somewhere at a crime scene. Or both.

But he'd never really been fussed about children anyway, having always vaguely assumed he'd have them one day, because he'd always pictured an indistinct, ever "some day" future in which he'd have a wife who wanted children and he'd just go along with it, because it didn't bother him either way.

Looking at Sherlock now, John realized he didn't want that vague future. He wanted the map-cap, ever present _now_, with this lunatic and beautiful man who heard too often how he was crazy and not nearly enough how he was gorgeous.

This was probably part of the problem, John realized suddenly. Sherlock spent a lot of time dealing with frustration and annoyance and intolerance just based on his personality. He probably had no means of appreciating someone else actually enjoying his company and _liking_ him. He was not even sure Mycroft liked him much, if only because Sherlock didn't let him, although Mycroft certainly did care for his younger brother, in a very strange way.

John pushed himself forward and reached out, running a hand into the dark curls. Sherlock leaned his head back into John's palm and the doctor took advantage of his to kiss him, only lightly, but lingeringly.

"You're not always going to get it _right_, Sherlock," John said, to which Sherlock scowled. John knew he wouldn't like hearing that, since getting things right was his stock in trade on the job.

"But nor am I," John continued.

"Well, obviously," Sherlock replied dryly and John moved his hand quickly from his partner's hair to elbow him in the ribs. Sherlock hissed and shot him a look, but John grinned.

"You could start by helping out a bit around the flat," John suggested.

"Chores?" Sherlock asked coolly, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yup," John replied. "I'll show you where we keep the cleaning supplies. And don't tell me you can't do it, because you," he pressed his index finger to Sherlock's forehead, "Are more than smart enough to handle it."

Sherlock huffed again, but there was a smile twitching on his lips.

"But," John said. "I've already done everything today that needs doing. So. I suggest you start somewhere else."

Again, Sherlock twitched an eyebrow at him, a knowing glint in his eyes.

"And what would that be?" Sherlock asked, leaning toward John slightly, voice low.

But John shook his head with another grin.

"You wish," he said.

"Yes, but so do you," Sherlock pointed out.

"Hmm," John replied, leaning forward as well, planting a light kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Well, that's true. Except I'll need to eat first. You can take me out for a ridiculously over-priced dinner somewhere. Preferably with some fancy and over-priced drinks."

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I really don't. That may not at all make us even."

"Oh, I think I can come up with a few ways to balance things out," John replied with another grin.

"Then why are we still here talking about it?" Sherlock said, pushing himself to his feet and holding out a hand to John. John grabbed it and hauled himself off the bed, then decided, at the last minute, that dinner could wait until they'd both properly worked up an appetite.


	8. Chapter 8

John woke up on Tuesday to the twin smells of freshly ground and brewed coffee and frying bacon. His mouth was watering before his brain was even fully awake and a second deep breath told his brain that there were eggs cooking as well. His stomach rumbled, already ahead of the game, but then John came fully awake and realized that Sherlock was not in bed, and this meant he was in the kitchen.

Cooking.

There was a war between trepidation and surprise, because he was fairly certain Sherlock would not _deliberately_ try to poison them, but he was equally as certain his partner wouldn't see the harm in trying some interesting and toxic chemical combination in the place of, for example, table salt.

But the smells were too enticing and tempted John out of bed. He searched for his old housecoat and, when he could not find it, he pulled a jumper on over the t-shirt in which he'd slept and then padded out of the bedroom, into the kitchen.

The missing bathrobe was immediately located, since Sherlock had appropriated it in place of his normal dressing gown for unknown reasons, but John didn't mind, because he liked the snug and warm way the detective looked in the faded navy blue terrycloth.

Sherlock smiled at him and greeted him good morning with a kiss and a cup of coffee. Prepared just the way he liked his first cup, John noted when he took a sip: one milk, one sugar. He let the warmth and steam and scent waft over him for a moment, watching in something close to awe as Sherlock served up eggs on toast and bacon and passed John the plate, waving him into a seat at the table.

"You made breakfast," John said.

Sherlock snorted.

"Brilliant deduction, John, as always," he replied, rolling his eyes.

John grinned.

"Pass me a fork and knife?" he requested and Sherlock fished these out of the drawer, handing them over. John looked down at the food in front of him – it seemed properly cooked, and smelled not only edible, but delectable. His stomach rumbled again, urging him to hurry up and eat already.

"I could get used to this," John commented lightly, taking a sip of his coffee.

Sherlock deposited himself in the chair next to John, pushing his own mug of black coffee out of the way to make room for his plate.

"You may have to," Sherlock agreed.

John grinned, tucking in. He did, indeed, get used to it very quickly, and didn't point out that the regular breakfasts comprising more than a hurried bowl of cereal helped Sherlock put on a couple more healthy pounds over time. He never let himself get complacent, however, and as much as he grew accustomed to having breakfasts cooked for him with astonishing regularity, he never once stopped appreciating it.

(**End**)

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Hooray! I hope you all enjoyed that multi-chapter fluffiness with some not fluffiness. Yes, John's nightmare was just a nightmare, nothing with a meaning or premonition. As a vivid dreamer myself (with a lot of nightmares, um, not so yay), I know they sometimes mean something and sometimes don't.

I'm away for 5 days as of tomorrow, that's Wednesday, until Sunday, for a conference, so there will be no updates and probably no writing while I'm gone. It makes me sad. But I will pick up again when I get back. I _promise_ I'm working on the sequel to Blue, at least figuring out what the hell happens in it, and I'm working on another multi-chapter angsty fic that was a request from a reader. So you will be without updates for the rest of the week, but I'm not abandoning you by any means.

Thanks a million to everyone who reviews and favourites, but especially reviews, because they're like oxygen and I love them. You guys keep me going. :D SM.


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